


Coy

by orithea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8675575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orithea/pseuds/orithea
Summary: “Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock says, after a long pause whilst he attempts to stare John down, and John responds with only raising his brow mildly.

  “Don’t be coy,” John says in return.

  That is Sherlock’s apparent breaking point, and before John has much chance to react—not that he’d particularly like to fight back in this instance—he’s pressed against the door to the flat with one of Sherlock’s legs sliding right between his own and their faces millimeters apart. John could tilt his chin up and they’d be kissing, but that would mean that Sherlock wins.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as usual to detectivelyd, without whom I might never be filthy.

John’s recently decided to return to locum work. Not because he needs the money—their rush of cases takes care of that, and he’s become used to living life without worrying about the bills these days—but because he feels like he needs to have something outside of Sherlock sometimes. Especially now that they’re sleeping together. Flatmates, colleagues, best friends, lovers: it’s all a little claustrophobic if John takes the time to dwell on it. Which is why he’s ended up taking a few days of work per week at a little surgery on Mortimer Street. It’s also why there has been a sudden uptick in both occasions on which Sherlock acts as though the idea of John leaving the flat without him is mortally offensive and worthy of a cold shoulder, and occasions on which John finds himself immediately pulled into Sherlock’s arms upon entering the flat for the evening.

It seems as though John might be in for one of Sherlock’s sulks when he arrives home this time; he’s on the sofa in his dressing gown, exactly where he was when John left him, which is rarely a good sign.

“I’m home,” John announces, because the alternative is that he accidentally says _Have you really not moved all day?_ or _You’re going to have to get over this. It can’t just be the two of us all the time._ He doesn’t think either of those would lead to a favourable outcome.

“Obviously,” Sherlock says, but it’s hardly as acidic a response as John expected. He’s actually sitting up on the sofa now, legs drawn up to his chest and dressing gown hanging open just enough for John to see that Sherlock’s missing his shirt and trousers.

“Wearing anything under that?” John asks, eyebrow raised.

“Maybe.” Sherlock’s lips twitch up in the slightest smirk, and it doesn’t take a genius to tell that he’s being alluring on purpose. John knows this game. Sherlock is goading him into making the first move, testing John’s patience as though he forgets who of the two of them has the most difficulties with delayed gratification.

When John feels like playing along, he never loses. He crosses his arms, leans back against the wall so that he’s not quite looming over the sofa any longer, and takes on an air of casual concern. “Wouldn’t do for you to catch a chill, lying about like that all day.”

“I haven’t. Not _all_ day. Only just before I expected you home.”

“Mm. So you took your clothes off just before I came home, then.”

“ _Yes_ , that is what I said.”

“Why’d you do a thing like that?”

The heat behind the glare that Sherlock gives him would probably make anyone else flustered.  John’s tongue darts out to trace his lower lip, but that’s the only tell that he’s affected by it at all.

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock says, after a long pause whilst he attempts to stare John down, and John responds with only raising his brow mildly.

“Don’t be coy,” John says in return.

That is Sherlock’s apparent breaking point, and before John has much chance to react—not that he’d particularly like to fight back in this instance—he’s pressed against the door to the flat with one of Sherlock’s legs sliding right between his own and their faces millimeters apart. John could tilt his chin up and they’d be kissing, but that would mean that Sherlock wins.

Sherlock doesn’t care that much about the game, in the end. “You are infuriatingly obtuse,” he says, and leans down to trace his lips along John’s jaw line in the way that he knows will make John squirm.

“And you’re completely transparent,” John shoots back. He grasps Sherlock’s chin in his hand and pulls him up into a kiss.

Being kissed by Sherlock Holmes is a fucking marvel and John can’t imagine ever getting tired of it, of the way that Sherlock throws himself into it wholeheartedly each and every time, moving lips and tongue and hands and body for an experience just short of overwhelming. Sherlock is a sensualist, seems to revel in having as much of himself pressed against John as possible, cataloguing all of his textures—cotton and denim against silk and bare skin, bare toes curling against warm leather, the hardness of John’s erection pressed deliberately against Sherlock’s thigh, thumb tracing the smoothness of John’s neck and meeting the roughness of his jaw. John gets dizzy with it, not even wanting to stop and breathe when he has Sherlock moving against him, and he whines, actually _whines_ when Sherlock pulls away.

“I was wanking earlier,” Sherlock says, a little breathlessly. “Touching myself and thinking of you, of course. I came once; it caught me a bit by surprise, got on my shirt. Seemed odd to keep the trousers on without the shirt. Or anything else on either.” As he talks, Sherlock takes John’s hand and slides it into his dressing gown, presses John’s fingers against his half-hard cock. It twitches as John cups it in his hand.

“What were you thinking of?”

“Hmm?”

“When you came?” John moves his thumb down to lightly trace the slit of Sherlock’s cock where he knows it just peeks from the foreskin.

“You—”

“Obviously,” John says, a perfect imitation of Sherlock.

Sherlock’s scathing look just now  is several shades less severe than the ones given when John is not fondling him. “You sucking me, holding my hips down. Like you did last week.”

“That was good enough to save as a wank fantasy?”

Sherlock says nothing, in a way that has John quite pleased with himself.

“And then”—Sherlock steps back and John releases him as he does—“about your mouth on me. Lower.” He takes his cock in his own hand, apparently offering a demonstration of his earlier activities. “I wanted to see if I could come without anal stimulation. But I couldn’t stop myself thinking about how it feels when you lick me.”

John takes a step forward, reaching, but Sherlock shakes his head and walks backwards to the sofa, maintaining eye contact with John as he does.

“Are you going to tease me, then?” John asks. He swallows audibly. “Make me watch ‘til I can’t stand it?”

“No.” His hand strokes languidly as he shrugs his dressing gown off his left shoulder and allows the fabric to pool down his right arm. “Now don’t interrupt.”

John—God help him—does as he’s told.

Sherlock stops wanking himself long enough to fling aside his dressing gown and lie down on the sofa. “Despite my exemplary self-control, I ended up with my fingers inside me.”

John is proud of himself for not interrupting again to point out that he’d never include self-control in a list of Sherlock’s considerable talents. He bites his lip instead, and presses the flat of his hand against the bulge in his jeans.

“You should take those off.”

“Should I?”

“Yes. And join me on the sofa.” Sherlock is stroking himself again, and John finds it amusing that he can sound so calm while he does. Sherlock usually falls incoherent when John handles him.

“If I do, will you let me touch you?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock says, coy again.

John strips bare unhurriedly, with practiced efficiency. He smiles when his cock bobs free and Sherlock hums with pleasure at the sight. John could almost feel jealous of the plain affection Sherlock has for his knob.

It’s tempting to just slide on top of Sherlock and cover his body with his own, to rub and rut against him. But Sherlock’s made it clear what he wants, so John sits at the opposite end of the sofa and stretches out his legs, pushing Sherlock’s aside to make room for his own. He touches himself after he’s settled. Sherlock’s eyes go hungry when John deliberately pushes his foreskin over the head, and John knows Sherlock’s thinking of taking it in his mouth, continuing his extensive cataloguing of the textures with his tongue (practically a hobby). Sherlock isn’t the only one who can observe and use what he sees against people.

They watch each other for several quiet moments.

“C’mere, then,” John says at last. He can be unendingly patient, but there’s no point in self-denial.

Sherlock clambers onto his knees, somehow steady and graceful despite the fact that the sofa isn’t quite deep enough for this sort of manoeuvering. He brackets John’s hips with his knees but doesn’t quite let the rest of his body touch John’s, even as he braces his hands against the sofa and leans down for a kiss. It’s gentler than the one they shared earlier—just Sherlock’s mouth against John’s and the soft swipe of Sherlock’s tongue over John’s lower lip, the brief pressure of teeth when Sherlock sucks John’s lip between his slowly and luxuriantly. John revels in it, lets Sherlock control the pace and pressure and only encourages him by running blunt nails up the back of Sherlock’s thighs until their kiss is equal parts movement and huffs of breath as Sherlock’s composure is shaken.

“I could kiss you all day,” John says when Sherlock has pulled back to take a shuddery breath, “but I know that’s not what you want.” He’s moved his hands higher while they kissed, so that he’s now stroking the crease where Sherlock’s arsecheeks meet thigh. Sherlock’s far enough away that John can just barely trail the tips of his fingers into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, even with Sherlock arching (seemingly involuntarily) to help. The skin is damp and downy hairs cling to John’s fingers.

“I showered. Earlier. After the—ah…” Sherlock murmurs. Already he’s losing some of his famous articulation just from being touched, and John feels a glow of pride that he can do _that_ to this man.

“Because you got yourself filthy?”

“Because I want you to eat my arse.”

There was a time when John never could have imagined Sherlock saying those words. The way that Sherlock drops all of his posturing when he’s aroused by John continues to be a fucking beautiful revelation.

“I’d have to be a heartless bastard to say no to that.”

“I know.”

John grins and swats Sherlock’s arse before pulling his hands away. “Well get to it, then.”

Sherlock has to stand to rearrange himself this time, and takes the time to stretch unself-consciously while John admires the long lines of him. He looks healthy these days, filled out and taken care of in a way that gives John a certain satisfaction regarding his part in it. And Christ, he’s so undeniably _male_ —the shock of dark hair against pale skin over his chest and down his legs, the way his clothing makes him deceptively lean when so much of his body is hard muscle and spare curves, the enticing jut of his cock towards his stomach—in a way that makes John’s mouth water and he can’t believe how many years he went without recognizing this part of himself, this palpable desire.

When Sherlock puts his knees back on the sofa, once again bracketing John’s hips but this time facing away from him, John has already shifted down to make room for him. Sherlock’s feet nestle neatly against the arm of the sofa, toes digging into the cushion. His legs are folded in a way that John knows he’ll complain about later, and he lets the weight of his chest fall against John’s legs. John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s hips from underneath to hold him up, and positions Sherlock’s arse directly in front of his face. The position has Sherlock obscenely open—perfect for their purposes—and John can see the flush of Sherlock’s skin deepening on his beautiful, scarred (John will always note this, this visible sign of their history and of Sherlock’s love) back. Sherlock’s face is turned to the side, where John can just see Sherlock biting his lip past the deep curve of his body.

John spits onto Sherlock’s hole, inches from John’s face,  and Sherlock’s breath comes out in a drawn-out gasp of mixed surprise and arousal, uncharacteristically high pitched. His arsehole clenches under just the touch of warm, wet spit, and John squeezes his hands against Sherlock’s hips when he starts to squirm.

“I’ve barely even started yet,” John says, knowing that his breath tickling the hairs on Sherlock’s arse and cooling his spit and only making things worse.

“Fuck,” Sherlock says. Then “fuck” again, when John runs the flat of his tongue slowly up the cleft of Sherlock’s arse from balls to tailbone. John repeats the same move again, up and down, never paying any special attention to Sherlock’s hole in his broad, steady licks, until he can hear Sherlock’s muffled voice. “Please. _God_ , John.”

John’s certainly heard the old adage that enthusiasm is almost more important than skill when it comes to sex. Luckily, he can count himself gifted with both. It particularly helps to have such a reactive partner; Sherlock is never more straightforward than when he’s got John’s face buried in his arse.

“Mmm,” John vocalizes in acknowledgement through lips pursed against Sherlock’s skin. He’s pleased with the little jump of Sherlock’s hips at the vibration, so he does it once more before, longer this time, before tracing just the tip of his tongue gently around the outer rim of Sherlock’s hole. When Sherlock starts to shift his hips in John’s grip, desperately seeking contact, John darts his tongue more firmly right where Sherlock wants it until John can hear him gasp.

Even when he’s not at the peak of his mental faculties, Sherlock is a man whose brain gets easily restless. It’s a game for John, varying unpredictable patterns and sensations to keep Sherlock fully engaged and begging for more. Teasing flicks are followed by direct swipes of tongue, mixed with figure eights traced around and over the puckered flesh until Sherlock’s thighs are straining wider and his breaths are harsh pants interspersed with moans. Sherlock’s cock is swaying gently as he tries to thrust back against John’s mouth; John can feel it pulsing hotly when it occasionally slides against his inner forearm, leaving behind the lightest trace of wetness with every brush. John suspects that this might just be one of those special, truly blessed occasions when Sherlock can manage to come just from arseplay.

By the time John works the tip of his tongue inside, Sherlock’s moans have turned into deep rumbles of pleasure that have John’s neglected cock starting to thicken once more. Sherlock is beautifully open beneath John’s mouth—there’s no doubt he could accommodate a few fingers right now, as spit-wet and sloppy as he is. John’s not shy about making a mess when he eats Sherlock out, pulling away to spit every now and then before pressing back in. His chin is easily as wet as Sherlock’s crack. As appealing as the idea of sliding three fingers inside Sherlock at once _always_ is, John can’t help but wonder—

John seals his lips around Sherlock’s arsehole and sucks and sucks until he pulls off with an obscene popping noise and Sherlock may actually be _crying_ or maybe he just can’t catch is breath, but it sounds desperate and needy either way. When John pulls away just a fraction so that he can speak, he has to wipe his mouth against the plush cheek of Sherlock’s arse first.

“Do you think you can come?”

Sherlock’s answer is a frantic nod that John can barely see and mostly feel from the rapid brush of Sherlock’s curls against his legs.

“Without being touched?”

“No. But put your _mouth_ back on me, _fuck_ ,” Sherlock breathes, and that’s good enough for John.

“Tell me,” John says. Sherlock nods.

Sherlock slides his hand to his cock, awkwardly trying to support his weight whilst still touching himself. The best he seems to be able to do is squeeze, not stroke, but damn if it doesn’t seem like enough at this point, wound up as he is.

John kisses Sherlock’s arsehole with lips and tongue before laving it firmly, darting just inside. He sucks again—the slurping noise it makes impossibly lewd—and Sherlock gives a little frantic cry. John can feel Sherlock’s arm moving, trapped between their bodies, feel Sherlock’s hips torn between pressing forwards into his hand and back into John’s mouth.

“I’m going to—”

John presses his tongue all the way inside, as far as he can reach. He’s fucking Sherlock’s arsehole with his tongue now, thrusting in a way that he knows he won’t be able to sustain much longer but he can feel Sherlock fluttering around him, then a deep clench followed by the first warm spurt of come dripping through Sherlock’s fingers and onto John’s skin, followed by another and another.

When Sherlock stops shaking, John stops holding his hips and lets him sink into the sofa. Sherlock’s knees must be cramped and he’s always boneless after a good fuck, but he sprawls out on his belly and cants his hips up invitingly. John couldn’t be more thankful when he drapes himself along Sherlock’s back and easily nestles his cock into the soaked skin of Sherlock’s cleft. Sherlock reaches back to hold John against him, one hand still wet with his own come, as John starts to slide against him.

“God, you’re a  gorgeous thing,” John growls against Sherlock’s ear, “coming on my tongue like that. Is that what you’ve been wanting all day?” He thrusts as he talks, not quite believing how slick the skin is just from his own spit. His length doesn’t fit perfectly between Sherlock’s cheeks—the head slides wet and hot over Sherlock’s lower back while Sherlock flexes and shifts against the underside of his shaft—but it feels fucking fantastic, would do even if he hadn’t just spent nearly an hour ignoring his erection so he could send this brilliant, stunning man to pieces around his tongue.

“Mmm, it was,” Sherlock answers. “That or you fucking me, but this is practically the best of both options.” His eloquence recovers quickly after having been fucked out of him.

And Christ if that doesn’t give John the best idea—

Not that Sherlock could possibly be up for being fucked, having come twice already and still overstimulated, but—

John pushes up on one hand and shifts his hips lower, guiding his cock so that the head slips between Sherlock’s cheeks now and presses against that still-fluttering hole. It still feels open, giving against the slightest pressure John applies to it before he eases off and just rubs gently, back and forth, nearly a perfect imitation of his teasing tongue.

Sherlock has the most accomodating arsehole of anyone, but even he wouldn’t be able to fit the whole blunt head of John inside like this, just spit slick and opened only by mouth. He’d be able to take some of John, though, let him dip in just a bit and feel the heated stretch around his fraenulum .

It doesn’t take a genius to tell what John wants, but he asks one anyway. “Can I go inside? Just a bit?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, pushing back against John. He sounds far more interested than anyone so recently satiated should be. Sherlock does have a certain love affair with John’s cock.

John sits back on his haunches, then pulls Sherlock upwards a bit so that his rear is balanced on John’s thighs. It leaves him splayed open again, a sight that John will never tire of. The angle is awkward, but John leans in close enough to spit onto Sherlock’s hole once more, then sits back and presses it inside with his thumb. Satisfied that it’s wet enough for his purposes, John uses the thumb to hold Sherlock stretched taut while he pulls back his foreskin and slips about half of the exposed glans inside with the other hand.

It’s nothing like actually fucking Sherlock, but it’s something and he’s already so close that just this pressure against the most sensitive part of him is nearly enough. John wraps his free hand around his shaft and pumps, whilst still holding Sherlock open with his thumb.

“God,” Sherlock exhales, long and drawn out. “God, I could almost...”—his hand slips back to touch his groin, testing—“no. But I’ll enjoy this anyway.”

John says nothing, just sucks his lip—tasting Sherlock on it—between his teeth and watches Sherlock’s arsehole flex around where he’s dipped in. He’s fixated while he strokes himself, and before he knows it he’s clenching his eyes shut tight and coming in what feels like endless, built-up waves.

When he’s done, Sherlock looks thoroughly debauched. John’s come runs between his cheeks and down his balls, onto the sofa, which was already stained with Sherlock’s spendings.

“Fucking hell,” John says when he’s got his breath back. He can’t help but swipe his thumb against Sherlock’s arse one more time, pressing a bit of his come inside, before he lets go. “This is an awful mess, even for us.”

“Wouldn’t be my first time having two showers in one evening,” Sherlock says nonchalantly. “Not sure about the sofa, though.”

John laughs and swats Sherlock's bum affectionately, then stands, stretching, and holds out his hand to Sherlock. “C’mon, let’s get the filth off you.”

“Impossible, I'm afraid,” Sherlock says, lips pursed as if delivering bad news. John chuckles, dirty, and pulls Sherlock to standing. The fond smile that follows before Sherlock pulls John in for a kiss is the most genuine thing John has ever seen.


End file.
